The masquerade ended long after midnight, but sleep never came for Aelric.
The moon hung low over Caer Thalyss as he stood by the window of his assigned chambers, eyes scanning the silent streets below. Even now, watchful figures patrolled the palace grounds — soldiers, Magisters, and shadows with no allegiance but gold.
It wasn't paranoia. It was survival.
The conversation with Seraphina still echoed in his mind. Her warning, subtle but clear — the storm wasn't coming. It was already here.
A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.
Rhea slipped inside, her cloak blending into the darkness. Bren followed, grim-faced.
"Message for you," Rhea said, holding up a sealed envelope. The wax bore no crest — only a faint symbol burned into the parchment.
A feather engulfed in flame.
Aelric broke the seal and unfolded the note. The handwriting was precise, almost unnaturally neat.
"If you value your life, come to the Hall of Echoes at midnight. Bring no guards. Speak to no one."
No signature. But the symbol was answer enough.
"Phoenix-blooded," Bren muttered. "You think it's a trap?"
"Everything here is a trap," Aelric replied evenly, tucking the note away. "But some are worth walking into."
Rhea's eyes narrowed. "And if it's not her? If it's someone else… worse?"
Aelric shrugged. "Then we find out how sharp their claws are."
The Hall of Echoes lay deep beneath the palace — a forgotten relic from before Caer Thalyss was crowned the heart of the human realms. Few ventured there now. Too many whispered stories of lingering magic, restless shades, and walls that remembered every spoken word.
It was perfect for secret meetings… or quiet executions.
Midnight found Aelric alone, cloak drawn tight, boots silent against the marble floors. He passed only two guards on his descent, their eyes glazed — likely enchanted. Another warning, or perhaps a courtesy.
The Hall of Echoes was vast, its stone pillars stretching into shadow. The air smelled of old magic and colder intentions.
Aelric stepped inside.
She was already there.
Seraphina Vale, seated upon the base of a crumbling statue — a phoenix with outstretched wings, weathered but defiant. Her golden eyes glinted in the dim light.
"You came," she observed.
"You called," Aelric replied, voice quiet but steady. "What do you want?"
Seraphina tilted her head, studying him for a moment longer than was comfortable. Finally, she stood, cloak whispering around her.
"I want you to understand something," she said softly. "This court, this kingdom, the gods watching from their distant thrones — they all see you as a threat."
"Because of the Rift," Aelric guessed.
"Because you're free," Seraphina corrected. Her gaze hardened. "You don't kneel to them. Not the gods. Not my father. Not even the System itself."
Aelric's heartbeat quickened at that last part. "What do you know about the System?"
Seraphina's lips curved faintly. "Enough to know it isn't as infallible as they want us to believe."
She took a step closer, voice lowering.
"They'll try to bind you. With politics. With power. With chains made of oaths and gold. But there's another path, Lord Veyne."
"And what's that?"
Her hand hovered near his chest — close, but not touching. Phoenixfire danced along her fingertips, casting flickering shadows across her face.
"Burn the chains," she whispered. "Rewrite the rules."
Aelric met her gaze, wary but intrigued. "And you'll help me do that?"
"I'll help you survive long enough to try." Her expression softened — not entirely kind, but honest. "I need you alive, Aelric. For both our sakes."
The flames along her hand flickered, then vanished.
Footsteps echoed down the hall — distant, but approaching. Seraphina stepped back.
"Think about what I've said," she murmured, already turning away. "This world… isn't built for men like you."
She disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and the promise of rebellion behind.
Aelric exhaled slowly.
No gods. No kings. No chains.
If Seraphina spoke the truth, then the storm was bigger than he feared.
And he was already at its center.
...
Aelric never made it back to his chambers.
The first hint was the silence — too deep, too deliberate. No patrolling footsteps. No distant murmur of servants. Only the whisper of cold air curling through the marble corridors.
The second hint came when he turned the corner near the Moonstone Gallery.
Four figures waited. Cloaked, masked, faces obscured, but their posture betrayed them — not royal guards. Assassins.
Aelric didn't break stride. His hand drifted toward his belt, brushing the concealed dagger Rhea had insisted he carry. The Shard pulsed faintly beneath his tunic — dormant, but aware.
The leader stepped forward, voice muffled by a silver mask. "Lord Veyne."
"Not interested," Aelric replied flatly, already calculating distances, escape routes, weaknesses.
"You should be." The assassin's tone held no malice — only cold efficiency. "Your presence offends the Crown. The Riftborn business is concluded. Your usefulness has expired."
Aelric smiled thinly. "You'll have to work on your diplomacy."
The assassin sighed, signaling the others. "We prefer finality to diplomacy."
They struck fast. Efficient. Clearly professionals — but not Riftborn. Mortal. Fallible.
The first came from Aelric's left — dagger flashing. He sidestepped, catching the attacker's wrist and driving his knee into the man's gut. Bone cracked. The man crumpled.
The second closed from behind — quiet, quick — but Aelric twisted, blade flashing. The assassin stumbled back, blood blooming along their forearm.
The remaining two hesitated.
Mistake.
Aelric reached inward — past fear, past exhaustion — and touched the Shard. Power flooded him, raw and scorching, like molten lightning surging through his veins.
It wasn't enough for full spells. But for a whisper of strength? For speed beyond human?
More than enough.
He surged forward, closing the distance before they could react. His blade found the first one's throat. A crimson line bloomed. The last turned to flee — only to collapse as Rhea's dagger struck him cleanly between the shoulder blades.
Aelric exhaled, pulse steady despite the blood staining the floor.
Rhea appeared from the shadows, Bren at her side, both weapons drawn.
"Took your time," Aelric remarked.
"Had to make sure you weren't just sweet-talking them out of it," Rhea replied dryly.
Bren kicked one of the fallen assassins over, frowning. "These aren't common cutthroats."
"No," Aelric agreed, crouching to examine the silver insignia hidden beneath a cloak — a stylized serpent coiled around a crown. "They're House Morgrave."
Rhea swore under her breath. "The king's hounds."
Aelric straightened, expression cold.
"They just made this personal."
A faint shimmer along the corridor caught his attention — a subtle magical mark, nearly invisible. A warning rune. Silent alarm. Whoever sent the assassins… they'd know this failed.
"Time to disappear," Aelric decided. "Before they send someone better."
Rhea nodded grimly.
As they slipped away into the palace's forgotten passages, Aelric's mind raced. This wasn't a misunderstanding. It wasn't court games anymore.
The Crown wanted him dead.
And now?
Now, he wanted answers — and revenge.